


focus on the score

by BiblioMatsuri



Series: DP Side Hoes Week 2021 [2]
Category: Danny Phantom
Genre: Brothers, Character Study, Father-Son Relationship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 12:01:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29949663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BiblioMatsuri/pseuds/BiblioMatsuri
Summary: He should just lie here. He already took an afternoon nap like a giant toddler, he can embarrass himself a bit more by not turning up for dinner.Fuck, but Dad’s actually home tonight.
Relationships: Danny Fenton & Wesley Weston, Wesley Weston & Easton Weston, Wesley Weston & Kyle Weston, Wesley Weston & Walter Weston
Series: DP Side Hoes Week 2021 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2199633
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	focus on the score

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the DP Side Hoes Week prompts for 3/9/21: Wes Weston and denial. Title inspired by [this page](https://basketballword.com/what-does-a-point-guard-do-in-basketball/).
> 
> TWs: swearing, ableist language, and horror. Check the end notes for the full list, but beware of spoilers.

Wes Weston is not a happy camper today.

He isn’t any kind of camper! He’s That Weirdo Point Guard now, apparently, because all the best and brightest minds of Amity Park can’t seem to connect the two dots of Danny Phantom and Danny _Fenton_ as being the same! fucking! dot!

Wes kicks his shoes off and falls into bed face-first, so he can bury his face in the covers and scream for a bit. He couldn’t care less about Easton and Kyle right now, but Dad got home early today, and he looks like crap. Let the old man rest.

After a(n admittedly pathetic) face-in-hands vent session, he’s too tired to get up. Between two separate ghost attacks at school today, and basketball practice running late because the freaking Box Ghost trashed the gym, Wes is in no mood to deal with anyone or anything else right now. Today fucking sucked, and you can take that to the bank and pipe it, or, or whatever.

Fuck.

When Wes tunes back in to reality, his room is dark, the hall light is on, and Easton is yelling something dumb about batting averages.

He should just lie here. He already took an afternoon nap like a giant toddler, he can embarrass himself a bit more by not turning up for dinner.

Fuck, but Dad’s actually home tonight.

Fuuuuuuck. It.

Fine.

He gets up.

Gross basketball clothes go in the vague direction of the hamper now. He’ll pick them up and fold them later; the floor is cluttered up again. He _just_ cleaned, like, _yesterday_ , what the fuck?

No time for a shower, he’s just going to grab whatever’s clean and head out.

In the living room, his dad is making a solid attempt to set the table. There’s a pot of spaghetti cooked in store-bought beef sauce, an optimistically-sized salad (with croutons, that Kyle is just picking up with his hands and eating, the heathen) and a freshly-opened can of olives. Not too bad, at least it’s not takeout again.

Wes sits down in his usual chair, next to Easton and across from an empty chair. He used to sit next to Kyle, but lately Kyle’s been extra-weird about some things, and he just can’t be bothered to deal with it right now.

Kyle looks up from his phone, spots Wes, and snickers.

Wes looks down automatically. He can’t have sauce on his shirt, he hasn’t even- oh. Ohhh crap.

He put on that awful X-Files shirt, like an idiot.

“Shut up,” he hisses at Kyle.

“You believe in me, bro? That’s so sweet.”

“I will boil your teeth.” Wes scowls. “Hey, East, you mind passing the pasta over?”

Easton acts like he doesn’t hear them, the fucker.

“ _Hey._ ”

Easton blinks. Looks around. Goes back to his face-stuffing.

Wes picks up a spoon and a couple of olives. Two can play hardball, Easton.

And Kyle shoves a plate of pasta (and salad) right into Wes’s face.

Wes blinks. What was he doing again? “…thanks.”

“No prob, bob.”

…oh right, he was about to launch an offensive at his dumb brother. “Eat olives, jerk!”

Kyle ducks, but not fast enough to save his stupid hat. Ha, score!

“Boys.“

Kyle pops back up, grinning like the dumbass he is. “Nice aim, little man!”

Little? Wes is going to show this- this blockheaded beanpole _little_.

Easton finally looks around, like he’s just noticed there’s a food fight starting up. Way to go, A-plus situational awareness there, kiddo.

“Boys-”

Kyle brandishes a pickle. Ew.

Wes reloads his spoon, with _three_ olives this time. (…they’re not large olives.) “You may have a melee weapon, but I have distance-”

“BOYS!”

Everything stops, for a second.

Dad never shouts. Well, not at them, anyway. At strangers, sometimes, or asshole relatives who won’t stop asking about when he’s going to _get over_ losing the love of his life and remarry already.

Fuckers.

Anyway, Dad looks. Actually, he looks really upset.

Wes puts the spoon and the olives down. He doesn’t even really like olives, but, eh.

Dad breathes, for a bit. His face gets less red, then circles back around to being worryingly pale. Not just, like, normal redhead pale.

“Boys,” he starts. Then stops. “Kyle, please don’t start any fights.”

Kyle opens his mouth.

Dad raises a hand in a stop signal.

Kyle closes it.

Easton sinks down into his seat.

“Thank you. I know, I know that things have been harder lately, but.” He smiles. It’s wobbly. “No reason to waste good food, okay? So let’s, uh. Let’s eat.”

Wes rolls his eyes. All that buildup, for _that?_ “Sure, Dad.”

Dad jumps a bit. “Wes! You’re here?”

…what le fuck? “Yes, _obviously_. It’s dinnertime, where else would I be?”

(Ignoring all of the times he’d been occupied elsewhere, for away games or team practice or looking for a way to prove that Fenton was Phantom. 

Or all the times Kyle skipped to go to the movies or band practice or hang out with his stoner friends. Or Easton turning up two towns over because he just had to go to this specific store, it had a really good sale. 

Yeah. Sure, nobody in this family _ever_ missed family dinner.)

Dad slumped down. And, okay, now Wes felt like a jerk.

“I’m, uh… Wes.”

“Yes, Dad?”

“You’re feeling okay?”

What. “Um. I’m fine?”

Why was Wes not getting lectured now? It’s not like Kyle started that fight, he just provoked it. It took a bare minimum of two to have any kind of fight, even if was a dumb one.

-not that he wanted to get lectured! Just. It was weird.

Dad smiled again. It didn’t look any better. “That’s good, son. I’m glad to hear that.”

Wes looked at Kyle. Kyle looked back at Wes, and shrugged dumbly. Figures.

Easton had his fingers in his ears, and his eyes screwed shut. Oh, that. That’s real fucking mature, asshole.

Wes reached for the olives again-

Kyle poked him. “Hey, bro.”

“What.”

“You gonna eat that, or should I just…?” Kyle pantomimed scooping food into his mouth.

“Ew, no! Get your own.” Wes scooped up some pasta. Stupid sauce, it wouldn’t stay up on his fork.

“Dad?” Oh, now Easton talks. “Can I go to the bathroom?”

“Sure, um, of course. Go ahead.”

“Thanks.” And with that, Easton fled. Coward.

Whatever, more food for him and Kyle. And Dad, if he wasn’t getting sick.

“Hey Dad, you feeling okay? You’re not working too much again?”

Head-shake no. “I’m- I’m fine, Wes. I’m off for a few more days.”

Wes perked up.

“Shit, really? So, uh…” He counted off days. “Wait, that means you can make my next home game! It’s this Thursday, we’re up against the Greenfield Beavers, and we’re going to kick all their a- f- uhh, _butts_ right back to their lame hometown.”

Dad looked tired. “That’s great, son.”

Again, with the Kyle and the trading looks. Yeah, Dad wasn’t going to make it. Probably get called in on some last-minute work emergency that No One Else Could Possibly Handle, like every other time.

Fff. Fine then.

Wes forked up some more pasta. “It’s fine, Dad. It’s really okay.”

Dad jumped.

Kyle stole some more croutons. “This is good salad, Dad.”

“…thank you, Kyle.”

Wes elected to ignore the family sideshow in favor of getting one of these stupid olives onto his fork already.

Back in his room, and Wes was ready to put That Whole Thing at dinner way out of his mind. Nope. Not his fucking problem yet.

He sat down in his swivel chair (actually Dad’s old one that didn’t spin anymore, but whatever) and started up his computer. The monitor looked kind of fuzzy. Maybe it needed to be replaced?

Ffff, no thanks. Not happening. He ran a troubleshooter on the display instead. It didn’t show anything. Maybe he was getting a headache?

Fuck, if he was going to start getting Dad’s migraines, Wes was going to scream.

Ugh.

Never mind. He opened the Evidence folder and double-clicked the main Sightings file.

The table had columns for date-and-time, type of encounter (personally met, interviewed a primary source, or got it off a website or news outlet) and whether or not it was Fenton or Phantom.

Some sightings overlapped in terms of timing, but it was a known fact that ghosts could shapeshift! Fenton probably just bribed someone to be his body double, or set up a holo-recording or something. Everyone knew he used Fenton tech, they probably had that, like a holodeck sort of thing or something.

That fucker.

Wes was going to put together the exact right evidence to _finally_ convince this whole town of clueless bozos that Danny Fenton was a ghost, or he was going to die trying.

**Author's Note:**

> Full list of trigger warnings: frequent swearing, ableist language (frequent use of words referring to mental and physical disabilities as casual insults) and past character death (of the POV character).


End file.
